Johnny in the Stairwell: What He Should Have Said
by LMSharp
Summary: Exposed as a liar and a spy, with her mother's recriminations ringing in his ears, and looking up at the desperate young woman begging him to save her, Johnny had no words. "Then I'll kill myself," she'd promised, if her face never changed, as if it were a foregone conclusion, and his heart broke. He wrote music, not words, but if he'd had them, this is what he might have said.


Listen to me, Penelope. I needed money, like I told you. When Lemon came into the gambling house where I was and mistook me for one of the guys I play with, Max Campion, a blueblood that lost all his money there, at first, I tried to tell him he had the wrong guy. Then he offered me five thousand dollars to get a picture of you. He and Edward Vanderman fitted me up with this jacket rigged to take a photo whenever I raised my arms. The day we met, I was having trouble with it. I hid behind the couch in the sitting room to try and fix it when all the other men ran. You were confused when I was still there? That's why.

So, I got to know you. I got to like you. You were smart and sweet and funny. I loved spending time together, and every day I was a little angrier that you've spent your whole life in here, never seeing anything, never really _living_. You knew what kind of person I was from that first day, and you still didn't judge me, but I started wanting to be better, because of you. I hope we became friends.

Every day, I felt like a worse piece of shit for lying I was Max Campion, that the only reason I was there was to get a five-thousand-dollar pic for a reporter with a grudge and some blueblood _asshole_ trying to prove he wasn't crazy for running from you like some demon. _You!_ Because, see, the pic wasn't the only reason I kept coming to your house. Not anymore. I wanted to talk with you. I wanted to see you.

Just now, when you came up behind me and put your hands on mine, I swear I caught my breath. They're _beautiful_ hands, Penelope. I got chills—in a _good_ way. And you let me turn around. And you let me see you.

Edward was terrified of you. He had warned me you were some monster. I think he'd honestly convinced himself you might _eat_ him. You are _nothing _like he'd told me. Your face surprised me, but when I saw you, I wasn't repulsed. I wasn't afraid. And I didn't see any monster. I don't, Penelope.

Penelope, if I could do anything for you, I would. I swear. You deserve it. But I'm a liar, and my father is a plumber, and _I can't help you_. Just now, I tore up Lemon's camera. I will pay back him and Edward every cent of the money they gave me. You're not some freak, some novelty. You're no one's fucking _story_.

If what you want is really some blueblood to marry and break the curse, then I hope one day you find him. I . . . I gotta say, I think I'll hate his guts. But see, I think marrying some random guy just to get out in the world is a hell of a price to pay. And if he _can't_ help you, if this is just the way you are—you know what scares me to death? The idea that you'd kill yourself over that. Or to make it up to some guy you thought could save you, because there's no way he should be stuck for life with someone that looks like you. Penelope, any guy in the world would be _lucky_ to have you, with or without that nose. With or without the money. Haven't they ever told you that?

You should get out of here. Just go. Drink that beer on tap, at Cloverdilly Pub or wherever the hell you want. See the street fair. Talk to the vendors. Walk in the park. Go to a concert or an opera or a symphony. Go shopping. Go to the beach. Meet people. They'll stare, yeah, but they stare at a lot of people. Tall people. Short people. People in wheelchairs. Albinos. They stare at anybody who looks a little different. But that's no reason to stay locked up in here. You might as well be dead.

Look, I understand if you never want to see me again. I lied to you. I used you. I don't know if _I'd _forgive me if I were you. But if you can—if someday you want to meet me at the Cloverdilly Pub for a beer or go watch some street performers at the park—if you want to kick my butt at chess in that room over there or watch me butchering the xylophone, I'm there. And whatever you do, don't kill yourself. Please. Please.

I'm sorry.

My name is Johnny.

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**A/N: It's been thirteen years since this movie came out, but it's still one of my favorites. I couldn't say why. It's just pretty and whimsical and really well done. But this one scene always leaves me desperate for Johnny to explain, to be able to slow things down and give voice to the whirlwind probably going through his head and leave Penelope knowing that "can't" means "can't," and not that she's some repulsive monster, leave her with some idea of how much he's come to care about her. I understand why he can't put the words together and how, at that point, Penelope, Wanda, and Jessica wouldn't let him say them all even if he could. But I needed to give him a voice there. So I did.**

**Best Always,**

**LMSharp**


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